


Perfect

by soamazinghere



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Characters Reading Fanfic, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-27
Updated: 2013-08-27
Packaged: 2017-12-24 19:03:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/943537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soamazinghere/pseuds/soamazinghere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Katniss Everdeen has finally found the perfect man. It doesn’t bother her one bit that he’s fictional. Modern Everlark AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perfect

**Author's Note:**

> This idea popped into my head on night when I was hanging out on tumblr, and I couldn’t get rid of it until I wrote it! Major spoilers for Pride and Prejudice inside, if that bothers you. Read, review, and come say hi to me on tumblr (soamazinghere). Enjoy!

“I promise you – you’re going to love this,” Madge assures me as she presses the well-worn book into my hands.

I’m skeptical. Honestly, I never thought she’d go through with this anyway. When Madge found out that I’d never read her favorite book, _Pride and Prejudice_ , she told me she’d lend it to me the first chance she got. Almost like she assumed I was just waiting for my chance to read it. I agreed to give it a try, but only to humor her; I figured that she’d forget about our conversation before she actually had a chance to bring me her copy of the book.

“Alright,” I tell her, my hesitation evident in my tone as I turn the book over in my hands. It’s a hardback copy with a smooth grey cover that has no pictures or words on it, aside from the author’s name and title. Nothing to give away what it’s about. “I’ll at least give it a try,” I shrug, stuffing it into my purse.

“You will _not_ be sorry, Katniss,” Madge says, a giddy smile crossing her face.  “It’ll change your life!”

__________

“This isn’t working out, Madge,” I gently explain when she and I meet for lunch the next weekend. I remove the book from my purse, placing it on the table and sliding it over to her. “I don’t really like Mr. Bingley. I don’t think I want to read an entire story about him.”

Okay, so I’ve only read ten pages of the book so far. But I can usually tell pretty quickly whether or not I’m going to like something. I think it’s best to just call it quits now, before Madge gets too emotionally involved in my reading her book. Based on how she’s been acting so far, I’m also worried she’s going to run through my entire texting plan with her constant questions about where I am in the book and what I think so far. The texts have been coming at least daily for the past week.

The smile on Madge’s face fades, her fork freezing mid-way to her mouth. She peers at me incredulously before placing a bite of omelet into her mouth. Never taking her eyes off my face, she chews slowly, wipes her mouth with her napkin, and finally pushes the book back to my side of the table. “The book’s not about Bingley,” she says flatly.

I look down at my plate, focusing on cutting my waffle into pieces. “I…did not know that,” I respond.

“And I didn’t know you could live for 25 years in our society and not know who the main characters in _Pride and Prejudice_ are,” Madge exclaims.

I glare at her. “Well, maybe I was too busy taking care of Prim to pay much attention to popular culture when I was in high school or college,” I counter.

“This isn’t ‘popular culture,’” Madge hisses, leaning forward and using her fork to point at the book. “This is a classic. Just read it.”

“Fine,” I relent, rolling my eyes. The book returns to my purse.

__________

I’m trying to give this book a chance, I really am. But there are too many distractions at home. My laptop, my television, my iPod...I’ve barely managed to read ten pages in the past half-hour. When I find myself getting up to check Facebook for the fifth time, I finally decide I need to leave.

Grabbing my purse and the book, I make my way down the stairs and outside. I walk aimlessly away from my building, not really certain where would be the best place to go and read in peace. There’s always the library a few blocks away, but are you supposed to take outside books in there? Or the park, if I can find a shady bench and don’t mind listening to the kids at the playground across the street.

I wander indecisively for several minutes until, out of curiosity, I find myself drawn to look at a new business that’s just opened. The neighborhood hardware store used to be located in this building; in fact, I remember being pretty angry when they went out of business a few months ago. From looking through the large picture windows facing the main street, you’d definitely never guess what used to occupy the space. Now, it seems to be a coffee shop or something; I’m not sure, but it looks inviting. I step closer to the window and peer inside. I see a mis-matched assortment of tables, chairs, and sofas, and even better, very few people to interrupt my reading.

Taking a few steps back, I use my hand to shield my eyes from the sun as I look up at the sign hanging on the shop: Mellark’s Bakery and Café. Sounds fine to me. Not a chain, as far as I know. And I’m all for supporting my local businesses.

I push open the front door and step into the shop. The smells that hit my nose are overwhelmingly good, and my stomach almost immediately starts rumbling. I believe lunch is in order.

No one’s manning the front counter right now, but I grab a printed menu and consider my choices. Just then, I hear the kitchen door slam open and a male voice that says, “Sorry about that! Can I help you?”

I barely even glance up, my eyes still focused on the menu in front of me. “No problem,” I respond absently. “Can I get...a tuna salad on wheat, and a bottle of water?”

“Of course.”

I return the menu to the counter and take a look at the display case in front of me as my order is prepared. This place is going to prove difficult to resist, I can tell already. The loaves of bread and bagels seem pretty standard for a bakery, but what I’m surprised by is the assortment of pastries. Cookies, cupcakes, croissants, tarts…I close my eyes and shake my head as a reminder to myself: _You can’t come in here every day after work, Katniss. You cannot_.

A few minutes later, I’m startled out of my pastry-filled reverie by the sound of a throat clearing. I look up and see my sandwich and water bottle are waiting. “Anything else for you?” the man behind the counter asks me.

With one conflicted, longing glance at the pastry case, I shake my head. “No, just this.”

The man rings up my order and takes the money I hand him. I’m briefly caught off-guard by the warmth in his bright blue eyes, which meet mine as he smiles and hands me my food. I give a half-smile in return before turning my back and making my way into the seating area in the next room.

I settle onto a couch in the very back corner, pull out my book, and start to read.

__________

It has to be really late right now. I turn onto my side and grab my phone to check the time. 1:07 a.m. I have to be up to go to work in exactly four hours and 53 minutes.

But I cannot stop reading.

I’ll admit it – and maybe I’ll even tell Madge the next time I see her – I’ve fallen in love with this book. After I settled down at the bakery on Saturday afternoon and finally focused on reading it, I’ve hardly put it down all weekend.

I feel like I’ve been on an emotional roller coaster, as trite as that sounds. Mr. Darcy’s surprise proposal to Elizabeth…her scathing refusal…the chance meeting at Pemberley…Lydia eloping with Wickham…I just can’t put into words how I feel right now. All I know is that I desperately need to find out what happens to Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet. I will sacrifice sleep for this.

“You two belong _together_ ,” I exclaim into the emptiness of my bedroom. It’s times like these that I most appreciate living alone.

I continue reading, trying not to miss anything, but at the same time rushing from one page to the next in a desperate quest to finish this book tonight.

I gasp in surprise when Lydia reveals that Mr. Darcy arranged her marriage to Wickham.

I cackle with glee when Elizabeth tells off Lady Catherine de Bourgh.

And I feel tears prick my eyes (and seriously, I _never_ cry) when Mr. Darcy proposes to Elizabeth for the second time, and she accepts. In fact, at this point, I actually hug the book to my chest because, well, I don’t have anyone else to celebrate with.

I read the rest of the book in a triumphant haze, relishing every word exchanged between Darcy and Elizabeth. In fact, when I finish, just after three o’clock in the morning, I feel so happy I could burst. I lie in bed with the lights off, intending to sleep but really just imagining their wedding, their babies, and everything else about their life at Pemberley.

I end up getting less than three hours of sleep that night. But it’s completely worth it.

__________

“So…you loved it?” Madge asks me with a smirk on her face.

I drop down heavily onto her couch and fold my arms over my chest. I want to tell her that she’s right, but I hate to confirm it when she sounds so smug. It’s infuriating.

She just stares at me with a huge grin until I finally give in. “Yes,” I admit reluctantly, rolling my eyes.

“I knew it!” she shrieks, running over to her television and grabbing one of her DVDs. Holding it behind her back, she walks over and sits down next to me. With a serious look, she says, “Now it’s time for the next step. This is why I asked you to clear your entire evening.”

Okay, now I’m worried. I lean sideways and try to see what she’s got behind her, but she angles herself away from me so I can’t catch a glimpse. “What is it?” I ask suspiciously.

She whips the case out from behind her back and holds it against her chest. “The 1995 BBC _Pride and Prejudice_ miniseries starring Colin Firth and Jennifer Ehle!”

I narrow my eyes and peer closely at the DVD case. “Miniseries?” I say doubtfully. “We’re watching an entire _miniseries_ tonight?”

Madge jumps up off the sofa and turns on her DVD player. Slipping the DVD inside, she says, “You won’t have any doubts when you see a soaking wet Colin Firth climbing out of the lake in front of Pemberley.”

I’m skeptical; I really don’t remember that part from the book. Madge glances back at me and scoffs at the look on my face. “Trust me, Katniss.”

__________

So I’ve read the book. I watched the miniseries and every other film adaptation I could get my hands on. (Madge was right, though – the version she showed me was _by far_ the best.) Now I just have a _Pride and Prejudice_ -shaped hole in my heart.

I want more. No – I _need_ more.

The book is perfect. Mr. Darcy is perfect. Don’t get me wrong. I just want to know more; my imagination can only carry me so far. I want to know more about Elizabeth and Darcy’s engagement, more about their life together after they’re married, or even…

I sit in front of my laptop, debating whether or not I should do this. I have no idea what I’m going to find. I pull up the search engine and start typing: “Elizabeth Darcy sex.”

2,130,000 results.

Where do I even start?

The first link is for a story called “ _Pride, Prejudice, and Pornography_.” Against my better judgment, I click on it, but after skimming a few paragraphs, I quickly close it down. It was just so...graphic. And it wasn’t even set in England; Elizabeth and Darcy worked in the adult film industry in Florida. Why would I want to read that?

I scroll down the page and find another search result, one that seems much more tame. “ _Their Wedding Night_.” That sounds pretty much like exactly what I’m looking for. I decide to click on it and read the summary: “Elizabeth Bennet and Fitzwilliam Darcy have just gotten married. On their way to their honeymoon in London, they stop at a country inn and experience their first time together.”

I shrug and start reading.

__________

Is it really two o’clock already? I glance at my clock with wide eyes – I’m still in my pajamas, I haven’t showered, and I haven’t even eaten anything since I got out of bed. At the very least, my stomach is telling me that I need to remedy the food situation.

I run over to my refrigerator and open it. It’s pretty bare inside; I haven’t been grocery shopping in a week. I need to go out, but…I stare longingly at my laptop. I’ve just discovered so much fanfiction that I’m dying to read.

I tap my fingers on the counter. This is not a choice I’m prepared to make.

Of course, there’s always the new bakery in the neighborhood. They _do_ have free wi-fi.

I race into my bedroom and throw on a pair of jeans. I don’t bother to shower, and I don’t change out of my pajama top. No one’s going to see it under my jacket anyway, and let’s be honest: I’m not leaving the house again today after I get home from this bakery excursion. I slide my laptop into a backpack and head out the front door.

When I get to Mellark’s, I order two chocolate croissants, a raspberry danish, and a large coffee. This should keep me going for several more hours.

I’m paranoid that someone’s going to be able to see what I’m reading on my computer, so I settle on a sofa that’s pushed up against the wall. No one will be able to sneak up behind me here. I open my laptop and continue the story I had just started: an epic 60-chapter tale called “ _Pemberley Nights_.” The summary sounded benign: “An account of Darcy and Elizabeth‘s lives over their first ten years at Pemberley. Rated M for frequent lemons.” I almost skipped it, but then I looked up what “lemons” were. Now I’m hooked.

I’ve completely lost track of time when I notice someone standing in front of me. A few hours might’ve passed, but I’m not sure…all I know is that I finished all my food and my coffee long ago, and I’m on chapter 22 now. I look up and groan inwardly as I see that it’s someone who works here. I bite my lip and stare at him questioningly.

“Um, hi,” he says, raking his hand through his wavy blonde hair. “Can I get you anything?”

It’s the same guy I saw the first time I came here; in fact, I think I’ve seen him every time I’ve been back since. He’s pretty well-built, but not overly muscular. Just enough to make his Mellark’s Bakery t-shirt cling to him in all the right places. Not that I’m noticing him or anything; I mean, sure, he’s very handsome, but he’s not really my type. His blue eyes look friendly, but I’m _certain_ he has an ulterior motive for talking to me and smiling like that.

I stare at him blankly for a few seconds before recognition sets in. _I get it_. He’s kicking me out because I’ve been taking up his table for too long. God, what a jerk. This place isn’t even halfway full.

I shut my laptop abruptly and stuff it into my backpack. “No, I was just leaving,” I tell him as I stand up. I glare at him over my shoulder as I make my way to the exit, barely noticing the bewildered look he gives me in return.

__________

It’s about time I admit that my _Pride and Prejudice_ obsession has morphed into a Mr. Darcy obsession. I mean, I would’ve fallen in love with him from the book alone, but couple that with the image of Colin Firth from the miniseries? I’m a goner.

Darcy’s just _so_ perfect that I decide – even though I’m still enthralled by _Pride and Prejudice_ fanfiction – to try reading Jane Austen’s other books. I’m not sure exactly why I think this is such a good idea. God knows I don’t have any time in my life for another obsession. But I do it anyway, thinking that maybe I’ll find another Darcy in one of these stories.

It also gives me a legitimate-sounding answer if someone asks me what I’m reading.

I read through all of Jane Austen’s other novels fairly quickly, but I’m dismayed that I don’t find anyone that I connect to in the same way I connect with Mr. Darcy.

Captain Wentworth probably comes the closest to the Darcy ideal, but he doesn’t _quite_ do it for me. For some reason, I can’t get excited about Edward Ferrars or George Knightley at all. Henry Tilney is sweet, but nothing special. And don’t get me started on Edmund Bertram – he frustrated me so much, I could barely finish _Mansfield Park_.

None of them even begin to compare with the Darcy ideal.

__________

My mouth is full of walnut-chocolate chip cookie when he accosts me again.

I’m stationed at what’s become my usual table at the bakery – in the back corner, where it’s fairly private and I can see anyone who approaches – reading on my laptop. Fanfiction, of course.

I notice the blonde guy walking toward me, but I’m hoping he’s just coming back here to sweep the floor or empty the trash or something. We haven’t actually spoken since that time he kicked me out for sitting too long, aside from brief exchanges when I order my food. He can’t possibly be doing that now, though. I just got here ten minutes ago; my sandwich sits untouched and is clearly visible on the plate in front of me.

When he stops in front of my table, I sigh before looking up. I try to give him an insincere smile that communicates, “I’m doing just fine here, thanks, please go away,” but I’m worried that my mouth twists involuntarily into a grimace instead.

He doesn’t take the hint, as he rocks back and forth on his heels with his hands in his pockets. I look around in confusion – doesn’t he have something he should be doing?

“You must work a lot,” he says.

“Huh?” I ask blankly.

He gestures at my computer. “You’re always holed up in here on your laptop. And you have such a serious look on your face,” he adds with a small laugh.

I blink several times, looking down at my computer with “ _Oh, Mr. Darcy_ ” open in front of me. “This? Oh, no, it’s not work,” I stammer out unthinkingly. Crap, why did I just say that? Work would’ve been a really good way to excuse myself for sitting in here so much. “I’m just…reading,” I mumble unconvincingly.

He cocks his head to the side. “On your laptop?”

I pretend to cough, taking a sip of water to try to give my brain time to scramble for an excuse. “Yeah, I like to read, um, unpublished works,” I respond. Wait, what does that even mean?  I scratch the side of my face and look down. I need something that sounds more serious. “And a lot of…long-form journalism,” I add, trying to meet his gaze.

Please god, don’t let him ask me for details.

He opens his mouth to speak, but at that moment I’m saved when the bakery’s front door swings open, letting in a mom with two young children. Blonde guy looks at me apologetically as he rushes away, and I surreptitiously gather my things to leave before he has a chance to come back and poke holes in my cover story.

__________

“When’s the last time you went out, Katniss?” Madge asks me as soon as I pick up the phone. I don’t even get a chance to say hello.

“What do you mean?” I reply defensively. “I have a job, I leave my house all the time.” Of course, even as I’m saying this, I’m checking my email, looking for story updates, and trying to think of an excuse to say “no” to whatever she’s about to ask me to do.

I see an alert telling me that “ _The Pride of Pemberley_ ” just updated. Now, I really want to get Madge off the phone…

“I’d love to analyze why your first reaction to me asking about you going out was for you to _literally_ assume I was accusing you of being a shut-in, but I only have a few minutes here,” Madge replies. “I’m calling to ask if I can set you up with someone.”

Ever since my break-up with Darius last year, Madge has made it her personal mission to try to find me a new boyfriend. If I let her do this – and I probably will, because I’ve found that agreeing is preferable to arguing with her – this would be the fifth blind date she’s arranged for me in the past four months. I honestly have no idea where she finds these guys. I know she’s just trying to be nice, but she and I have completely different tastes in men. Truthfully, I think she sets me up with guys she’d like to date if she were single.

“His name’s Finnick Odair,” she continues before I even have a chance to respond. “He’s an associate at Gale’s firm. Very handsome, very confident – ”

I interrupt her. “Have you already committed me to a date with this guy?” It’s her usual approach: she gets my permission last, after everything else is arranged.

She pauses on the other end of the phone. “Kind of,” she mumbles.

“Fine,” I sigh, clicking on the link to open the new “ _Pride of Pemberley”_ chapter. “Just tell me where and when, and I’ll show up.”

__________

I stop into Mellark’s quickly on my way to work. Blonde guy is at the counter, as usual. I swear I’ve seen other people working here, but they always seem to be doing something else when I’m around. I order my chocolate chip bagel and orange juice to go.

It takes a few minutes for my bagel to toast, and blonde guy looks like he wants to talk to me, so I turn around and pretend to be engrossed in my phone. He’s making me nervous.

But he doesn’t take the hint. From behind my back, I hear him say, “I’m Peeta, by the way.”

I look up from my phone and reluctantly turn around to face him. “Peeta?” I repeat back to him for confirmation, trying to sound interested.

He nods. “I just thought I should introduce myself. You’re in here all the time – you’re practically my best customer.” He looks at me expectantly; I suppose he’s waiting for me to give him my name.

“Oh, um, I’m Katniss,” I tell him hesitantly.

He smiles widely. “Nice to meet you, Katniss. Well, I mean, we’ve met, but…um, now I know your name,” he finishes awkwardly with a small laugh.

I raise my eyebrows and nod in return. “Nice to meet you, too.” I look over his shoulder at the toaster; why is it taking so long? I feel like I should say something more to him, but I’m so bad at small talk. I rock back and forth on my heels, thinking. “So…you…work in a bakery?” That’s the best I can manage this morning.

Thankfully, he doesn’t call attention to my incompetent attempt at conversation “I work here, and I own it, too,” he answers. “Mellark. It’s my last name.”

I smile politely while he tells me about how he grew up in his parents’ bakery and dreamed of having his own someday, but truthfully I’m relieved when my bagel finishes toasting and he hands it to me. As I head out the door, he calls “Bye, Katniss,” at my back.

I stop and turn around, giving a half-hearted wave. “Bye, Peeta.”

__________

I don’t really need to say it, but I will: Finnick Odair is no Mr. Darcy.

That much was obvious to me as soon as he showed up at my front door. As I grabbed my things to leave, I clumsily dropped my keys and phone to the floor as I attempted to put them into my purse. When that happened, Finnick turned to me, raised his eyebrow, and said – I’m not even joking here – “Do you find me distracting?” I was too stunned to speak, which I worry he may have interpreted as confirmation of his hotness.

And yes, I’ll admit he was hot, but it was overshadowed by the fact that he was also a giant douche.

It didn’t help matters a bit that he took me to a super-trendy restaurant that’s known more as a place to be seen as opposed to a place where you can, you know, actually get decent food. Seriously, there was a DJ in the corner, some kind of electronic music thumping, and the lights were so low, I could barely read the menu. Finnick somehow managed to make conversation with me even though he kept darting his eyes toward a gaggle of women hanging around the bar.

At one point, he spotted some girl named Annie, and actually got up and left me for a good 15 minutes. I’d normally be offended, but I appreciated the break it gave me from his tiresome attempts to get me to tell him “all my secrets.” And it gave me a chance to eat the $22 appetizer-sized crab cake that was supposed to serve as my dinner.

At the end of the evening, he cajoled me into staying for dessert and coffee, and I very reluctantly agreed. Mostly because he was paying and I was still hungry. But never in my life have I felt so creeped out by someone offering me a sugar cube.

I know I don’t have a great track record when it comes to dating, but this date was definitely a good candidate for my top-five worst list. Or maybe that’s bottom-five. And that includes the “date” when Cato broke up with me, informing me that I was “emotionally unavailable” and had an “ice cold heart.”

I collapse against my front door and let out a deep breath as soon as I get home. I make a beeline for my bedroom to change out of the green wrap dress that I’d worn, and to scrub the makeup off my face. Getting dressed up for this jerk was such a waste.

I slip into my pajamas and head back to the living room. On my way there, I spy a package on the dining table, and perk up. Suddenly I realize that I have the perfect thing to salvage my evening: my brand-new copy of the BBC _Pride and Prejudice_ miniseries.

I start the DVD and settle myself on my couch with my laptop. I’m disappointed to see that there aren’t any new story updates tonight, but at least I have my Mr. Darcy to keep me company.

And as I watch the familiar scene of him riding his horse toward Netherfield, I can’t imagine needing anyone else. Real or fictional.

__________

Over the past few weeks, I’ve come to learn that Peeta is quite a chatty guy. Before when he talked to me, I thought he was singling me out, but I’m pretty sure this is just how he treats all his customers. At least, that’s my assumption.

And I’ve also learned that it’s not so bad being friends with a bakery owner. If I stop by late in the day – maybe an hour before he closes the place down – he’ll often give me some free cheese buns. So there are perks, and I have to admit, I try to take advantage of them often.

Tonight’s a busy night – four of my favorite stories just updated with new chapters – but I dragged my laptop to Mellark’s anyway, with hopes of being rewarded. Peeta didn’t let me down, of course. These cheese buns are delicious, and Peeta must’ve microwaved them for me right after I got here, because they taste like they’re fresh out of the oven, even though I’m sure they’re not.

I’m right in the middle of the new chapter of “ _A Country Walk_ ” – Darcy and Elizabeth had reached the top of Oakham Mount, and he was just starting to divest her of her numerous undergarments – when Peeta stops by, sitting down on the couch that’s just to the right of my usual table.

“How’re you doing, Katniss?” he asks.

“Hey Peeta,” I respond automatically, never looking up from my computer screen. “I’m fine.”

“That’s great,” he replies, a little overly enthusiastic. But I just ignore him and keep reading my story. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him rubbing his hands on his pants and glancing at me every few seconds. _Why does he keep doing that_? Self-consciously, I smooth my hand over my hair and run my tongue over my teeth, trying to figure out if I’ve managed to embarrass myself somehow. But everything seems normal.

After a few moments of awkward silence, Peeta stands up. I let out a deep sigh of relief, assuming he’s about to leave. I kind of don’t want to read the rest of the smutty part with him sitting so close to me. It feels…wrong.

But he doesn’t leave. He walks over to the table and stands directly in front of me. I raise my eyes questioningly to his face, watching as he rubs his hand nervously over the back of his neck and seems to take a deep breath. “So...I was thinking of checking out the new exhibit at the art museum,” he tells me.

I nod absently, allowing my gaze to drift back down to the computer screen. I’m not really sure why he feels the need to inform me of his plans. “That’s nice,” I say disinterestedly.

“Do you...like art?” he asks, flicking away some crumbs from the tabletop.

I don’t really know. On the other hand, I haven’t been to the art museum in all the years I’ve lived here, so that probably says something. But somehow, saying that I don’t like art doesn’t seem like an acceptable answer to the question, so I instead I respond, “Um, sure?”

“Have you already been to the exhibit?”

Feeling a growing annoyance that this conversation is continuing, I answer with a curt, “No.” My mind keeps wandering back to my story, which I’m dying to continue reading.

“Would you be interested in going?” he asks.

I think for a few moments. Truthfully, I don’t think so – wandering around a museum isn’t usually my idea of a good time. And I don’t really know much about art or artists, so I’m not sure I could appreciate it anyway. Part of me is really curious about why he cares about my level of interest in this art exhibit, but I dismiss it. I decide to tell him the truth. “Probably not.”

Just as the words leave my mouth, it occurs to me that I may have misinterpreted his question. I thought he was just asking me hypothetically about whether I wanted to see this particular exhibit. But I suppose he could have been asking me if I wanted to see the exhibit _with him_ , even though that makes no sense.

I eye him suspiciously. Is he trying to ask me out? He can’t be; there’s probably some other reason he’s asking me this, even if I can’t figure it out. Plus, even if he was asking me out, I’m swearing off of men – real-life ones, at least – after the whole Finnick debacle.

The expression on Peeta’s face is inscrutable, but my level of emotional intelligence is low so I probably couldn’t figure it out anyway. Still, I’m starting to feel a little frantic that I may have inadvertently offended him, when he responds with a neutral-sounding, “Well, that’s too bad.” He stuffs his hands into his pockets takes a few steps back, starting to turn to head back to the front counter. Before he leaves, he says, “Can I get you anything else, Katniss?”

“No thanks, Peeta. I won’t keep you from your work any longer,” I assure him with a smile.

As he walks away, I can’t help but feel puzzled. That was...odd. Still, I think that I was wrong in assuming – even for a brief moment – that he’d wanted to ask me out. He really didn’t seem too disappointed when I said no.

I decide not to worry about it anymore, and I turn my attention back to my story.

__________

“All I can say is, you outdid yourself with this one, Madge,” I joke into the phone.

“I’m so sorry,” she apologizes. “I knew Finnick had a bit of a reputation, but I didn’t realize…”

“It’s okay,” I assure her. “It was just one evening.” I don’t hold it against her, not really. I know she means well, I but just wish she’d accept that I’m happy with my life the way it is and leave me alone. I don’t _need_ to replicate whatever it is she thinks she has with Gale.

“Well, I have some more leads,” she informs me brightly. I groan loudly, but she ignores it. “There’s Beetee – he’s one of the programmers I work with – when I showed him your picture, he seemed interested. And Haymitch – Katniss, how do you feel about older men? I don’t think – ”

“Stop, just…stop a minute,” I interrupt her. I rub my free hand over my eyes and sigh audibly. “I don’t need you to set me up on anymore dates, Madge.”

I’m just trying to stop her, or at least slow her down a little, but she immediately jumps to the wrong conclusion. “Why? Did you meet someone?” she asks excitedly.

“What? No,” I sputter. “God, no.” I stop to think for a few seconds before continuing. “I just need to take, like, a dating break.”

Madge doesn’t respond, but I can practically hear her disappointment hanging in the air. “Katniss!” she whines, but I refuse to give in. Honestly, I’ll probably cave and let her set me up again next time she asks, but I’m not telling her that now. For now, I just want her to know that I’m done.

Finally she changes the topic, much to my relief. “Hey, do you still have my copy of _Pride and Prejudice_?” she asks.

That’s right; I never gave it back to her after I finished. Oops. “Yes, do you need it?”

“Yeah, I’m going to loan it to one of my friends at work,” she explains.

“Better warn her that it’s going to take over her life,” I joke uneasily. Because it’s not really a joke, is it?

Madge laughs. “You’re so funny, Katniss. It’s just a book!”

My jaw drops open at her words. _Just a book_? Is she serious? What’s she going to say next, that Darcy’s _just_ a fictional character and shouldn’t be the ideal to which I hold all men for the rest of my life? That I shouldn’t spend all my free time reading and thinking about Darcy and Elizabeth’s relationship? That my Tumblr blog devoted to _Pride and Prejudice_ is a waste of time?

I laugh weakly. “Sure, Madge...just a book.”

__________

“Katniss!” I hear a voice call out from a few steps behind me. It’s fairly early in the morning, and I’m walking briskly down the street to catch my bus to work. I don’t really have time to spare, but I turn around anyway. It’s Peeta.

“Hey,” I greet him curtly, giving him a small smile and hitching my backpack up on my shoulders. I look at my watch – I have ten minutes until the bus is supposed to arrive. “Don’t you need to be in there?” I ask him, nodding toward the bakery.

“Oh,” he looks over his shoulder before turning back to me. “It’ll be fine for a few minutes. I just...haven’t seen you in the bakery for a while.”

It’s true. Ever since we had that weird conversation about the art museum last week – when he asked me out or whatever it was – I’ve been avoiding him. Even though I initially completely discounted the idea that he might’ve been asking me out, I’ve been second-guessing myself ever since. And I don’t want to send the wrong message by continuing to spend my evenings basically hanging out with him. “I’ve been busy,” I lie.

I can tell that he doesn’t believe me, but he doesn’t say so directly. “That’s too bad,” he says, holding his hands behind his back. “But, um,” he continues nervously, “I wanted to apologize for the other night. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

Well, he’s making me feel a little uncomfortable now by even bringing it up. I want to say something to let him know that it’s no big deal – because it really isn’t – but I know my bus is coming soon, and I just don’t know how to adequately respond to him without getting caught in some long conversation that I don’t have time for.

So instead, I stand here flustered, not managing to say anything at all before he continues. “I’ve...we’ve missed having you around,” he tells me. He takes his hands out from behind his back and hands me a small paper bag. I take it but look at him questioningly. “Cheese buns,” he responds, nodding at the bag. “Just wanted to remind you of what you’re missing.”

As much as I try to suppress it, my mouth twists into a smile. “Thanks,” I tell him, blushing even though I don’t understand why. “I have to get to work now but...I’ll see you soon.” I turn to leave, but I’m unable to resist pulling a cheese bun out to eat it right away. As I bite into it, I glance back over my shoulder and catch Peeta’s eye. I wave; he smiles.

__________

Should I do this? Should I really click on this link?

I mean, it says this is an illustration of one of my favorite scenes from “ _The Pride of Pemberley_.” It’s everyone’s favorite scene, of course: the one with Elizabeth and Darcy on the piano in the music room at Rosings, when Lady Catherine almost walks in on them before she’s distracted by Mr. Collins. It was so hot.

But I’m at the bakery right now, not in the privacy of my own home where I can freely look at _Pride and Prejudice_ porn without fear of judgment, or of prying eyes catching me and finding out that _this_ is how I spend a good deal of my free time.

On the other hand, I’m tucked into my usual table in the back corner of the bakery, where it’s unlikely anyone would see me. And as far as I can tell, there are no impressionable young children or easily mortified old ladies around.

And I really want to see Darcy’s, um...let’s just say I want to see the _real_ Pride of Pemberley.

I glance around the room one more time for good measure. There are only a few other people in here, all alone like me, all seemingly engrossed in books or their own computers. Yes, I’m absolutely aware that I’m acting creepy, but I think I can get away with it.

I click on the link and my eyes widen at the scene in front of me. Schooling my face into an emotionless mask, I take my time examining the, um, artistic details. I just can’t believe the talent –

“Hi Katniss.” I jump and reflexively slam my laptop shut as I hear Peeta in front of me. How did he sneak up on me like that?

“Hi Peeta!” I chirp way too enthusiastically. And then, because I’m nervous and trapped in a corner, my next instinct is to start talking. Unfortunately I don’t quite know when to stop. “I didn’t see you there! I was just so caught up in reading about the...the...” My eyes dart back and forth as I desperately wrack my brain for something intelligent-sounding. “Teapot Dome scandal!”

Peeta narrows his eyes at me – I have no idea if it’s because of the strange way I’m acting or because he has no idea what I’m talking about. I clutch my laptop to my chest and take a chance on it being the latter. “You know, the roaring twenties!” I laugh nervously. “President Harding, and...” I shake my head in what I pray is a decent approximation of indignation. “I can barely talk about it, it just makes me so angry.”

I may have overdone it a little, because Peeta has a truly concerned look on his face as he sits down gingerly in the chair next to me. I angle myself away from him slightly, trying to hide my computer from his view, as if he’ll somehow see right through my closed laptop and find out that I’m looking at Mr. Darcy porn in his family-friendly restaurant.

He slides a plate of cheese buns in my direction. “For you,” he tells me.

I smile and reach for one of the steaming pastries, never loosening the death grip I have on my computer. If Peeta notices, he’s nice enough to not say anything.

For the next few minutes, Peeta attempts to engage me in some sort of conversation, most of which I don’t remember. I can’t imagine that my monosyllabic answers are very encouraging to him, but for some reason, he stays with me anyway. The entire time he’s talking, I have a million emotions running through me: guilt for even thinking of looking at x-rated Darcy pictures in the bakery, fear that he’ll somehow find out, and a primal instinct to leave as quickly as I can.

I keep glancing down at my backpack surreptitiously, trying to snag it with my shoe and bring it closer to me so that I can secure my laptop inside. I’m continuing to nod in response to whatever it is he’s saying, and suddenly I’m brought back to reality when I clearly hear him say the words: “see you on Friday at 7:30.”

My head flies up and in my haste, I almost drop my laptop. But I manage to keep it in my lap as I squeak out, “Friday at 7:30?”

He stands up and smiles widely; whatever I said, it must’ve been what he wanted to hear. “Yep, the movie starts at eight o’clock, so that should give us enough time to get there.” Shyly, he continues, “Can I get your address? And, um, your phone number too?”

Shocked, I nod and take the phone that he holds out, entering my address and phone number into his contact list.

I guess I just agreed to a date.

__________

_This_ is what Peeta Mellark has done to me. _“How I Long for a Ball”_ was just updated, and I can’t even bring myself to read it. I’m too nervous.

I sit stiffly on my couch, biting my fingernails and staring at the clock on the wall in front of me. Five minutes. He’ll be here in five minutes. Or sooner. I would just bet he’s one of those people who gets places early.

If only I had the courage to call him and cancel. I don’t need to go on a date. I don’t need a boyfriend. I’m _fulfilled_. I’m very happy with my life exactly as it is.

The only positive thing I can say at this point is that since he asked me to see a movie at the film festival in the park, I didn’t have to worry about getting dressed up. My yoga pants and t-shirt are just fine for sitting uncomfortably on a blanket in the grass. And if he doesn’t like it, well, what’s the worst that could happen? He won’t ask me out again? Not a problem.

I jump when I hear a knock on the door. I shake my head – he’s two minutes early. I was right.

I sigh heavily and wipe my hands on my pants. Why are my palms so sweaty anyway? I trudge to the front door and open it, putting on the most enthusiastic smile I can muster. “Hi, Peeta. Um, do you want to come in for a minute?” I ask, opening the door wider. “I just need to grab my purse...”

Peeta steps inside, looking around cautiously as I grab my phone and keys from the kitchen counter, dropping them into my bag. I hear him clear his throat as he begins to speak. “You look great, by the way,” he tells me.

I stop in my tracks. _No, I don’t,_ I think, looking down and appraising my entirely ordinary outfit. I shrug my shoulders as I finish gathering my things, but it looks like he’s waiting for me to respond. “You, too,” I mutter, even though I really haven’t noticed the way his jeans hang perfectly on his hips or how his slightly-messy blonde waves hang over his forehead.

I walk to the front door and raise my eyebrows at him. “Ready?” I ask.

He nods and takes my hand loosely in his as we walk out. I decide to ignore the strange feeling I get from the contact, and I resist the strange urge I have to thread our fingers together.

As we walk down the hall, Peeta remarks, “I thought a movie sounded like a great idea when I suggested it, but now I kind of wish we were doing something else tonight.”

I furrow my brow in confusion as I look up at him. “Why?”

“I’d just like to be able to actually talk to you,” he says, casting his eyes sideways to give me a quick glance. “I mean, we’re going on a date, I’d like to, you know, get to know you better.”

Funny he should say that, because one of the things I appreciate about movie dates is the lack of pressure to make conversation. But I suspect that Peeta and I have very different personalities. Probably incompatibly different. Still, the next words slip out before I’m able to stop them: “Well, there’s always next time.”

__________

I’ll admit that I had a good time with Peeta tonight. But thankfully I only have to admit it to myself, because I didn’t tell anyone I was going on a date. Well, I told my friends on Tumblr, but that’s different. I can tell them anything. I posted this extremely pessimistic message earlier today:

_thesixthbennetsister: Going on a stupid date to a stupid movie tonight. I’d much rather stay home and catch up on Dipping His Wickham!_

But it turns out that I was wrong: my date with Peeta was probably equally as fun as a night in front of my laptop reading Darcy/Wickham slash fanfiction.

After changing into my pajamas, I sit down at my dining room table with a mug of chamomile tea, the high points of the date running through my mind.

Let’s see...I liked the movie, definitely a good thing. Peeta was pretty shocked, though, when I told him I’d never seen the _Star Trek_ reboot before tonight. Whatever – I’ve seen plenty of gifs of it on Tumblr.

At no point did I have to make awkward small talk. I attribute this mostly to the fact that we barely had to talk, given that we were at a movie. Still, when we did talk, it was surprisingly easy. And I found myself laughing with Peeta...well, more times than I laughed with Finnick Odair, at least.

There were the perks of going on a date with a baker, of course. Peeta brought us plenty of food to share while we watched the movie. And not just pastries either; it turns out that he can actually _cook_. He made some fantastic barbecued pulled pork for sandwiches, Cuban rice and beans, and some kind of yummy cucumber salad – all in addition to the pastries, of course.

And, well...it turns out that he’s a really good kisser, too.

So, at the end of the night when he dropped me off and said he wanted to see me again, I felt compelled to agree. Still, I tried to stay as noncommittal as possible, so we didn’t end up making any specific plans. And I’m fine with that. I don’t _need_ to start down the path toward some kind of relationship.

Maybe he’s telling the truth about wanting to see me again, and maybe he’s not. I’m going to leave the ball in his court and see what happens. If he asks me out again...well, I’ll cross that bridge when and if I come to it.

I walk to my desk and pull open my laptop. I’m a little disappointed to see no new story updates in my email, but I have two messages on Tumblr.

_colonelfitzwilliamswife: you need to tell us all about your dateeeeee!!!!! was it horrible?_

_lookatthesepicturesofmycat: i hope the date went well and wasn’t as bad as you thought it would be._

I wrap my hands around my mug, slowly taking a sip of tea while I stare thoughtfully at the computer screen. Do I respond and share all the details of my date? Do I admit that I was wrong about Peeta? I wish I could go back in time and tell myself not to make that stupid post. Now it’s much harder for me to pretend that nothing happened.

I place my mug down, fingers hovering uncertainly over my keyboard, when I hear my phone buzz with a text message notification. I run across the room to fish it out of my purse.

It’s Peeta.

_“I know I already said this but...I wanted to tell you again that I had a great time tonight. Sweet dreams.”_

I bite my lip, which might stop my smile but does nothing about the inexplicable warmth I feel when I read his words.

__________

So much for leaving the ball in his court, Katniss.

Here it is, not even one full day after our date, and I find myself walking through the front door of Mellark’s Bakery. It’s just for the cheese buns, though.

I probably shouldn’t even be coming here; I mean, honestly, I know I’m just going to end up giving Peeta false hopes. He’ll probably think that I’m here to see him. Which I most definitely am _not_.

I bet he won’t leave me alone all night.

I open the door and look around nervously, but I stop in my tracks when I don’t see Peeta anywhere. There’s a red-haired girl at the counter, but I don’t remember her name; we’ve never even spoken to each other. She gives me a polite smile, which I return uneasily as I make my way to my usual table. I hope she remembers me, because although I don’t plan on ordering any food tonight, I don’t want her to think I’m some kind of a wi-fi freeloader. I’m Peeta’s friend, so I’m allowed to be here.

I pull out my laptop and start browsing Tumblr while simultaneously reading the new chapter of “ _Barely Tolerable_ ,” but for once, I can’t keep my eyes on the screen. Usually I’d be completely lost in my own little world by now; but tonight, I find myself looking up every time the front door opens, every time someone enters the room. None of them are Peeta, though.

I keep trying to read.

Nearly thirty minutes pass, and although I’m not looking, I still haven’t seen any sign of Peeta. He very well might be avoiding me. Maybe he didn’t really want to see me again after our date; maybe he was just being nice when he said he did. And now I’ve put him in an uncomfortable position. There’s a strange feeling in the pit of my stomach; I’m probably just hungry because I was expecting Peeta to have brought me cheese buns by now.

Soon enough, I hear Peeta’s unmistakable laugh in the next room. It sounds like he’s talking to the red-haired girl about something, but I can’t make out the exact words. I clench my fists and panic momentarily. What should I do now? My instinct is to leave, sparing us both the awkwardness of having to acknowledge the other...but I have to pass by the front counter to get to the door, and I’m sure he’d see me. I could sink down in my seat and try to hide behind my laptop right here, but given that this is my usual table, I think he’d figure out that it’s me.

Before I have a chance to decide, Peeta pops his head into the room where I’m sitting. He looks around and his eyes light up when they land on me. I feel heat rising in my cheeks as he smiles.

He quickly ducks back into the other room, and I raise my hands to my cheeks, feeling a bit foolish at how my body is reacting to his presence. I don’t have much time to gather myself though, because not even ten seconds later, he’s sliding into the seat next to me, leaning forward and capturing my mouth with his.

My eyes widen in surprise, but he doesn’t notice, and it doesn’t matter anyway because I find myself kissing him back. My hand even reaches out tentatively to his cradle his cheek.

My other hand, though, moves to shut my laptop, which was open to Tumblr when he sat down.

“Hey,” he greets me softly as he pulls away. “I brought you these.” I glance down at the table and see my customary plate of cheese buns, looking as warm and delicious as ever.

My hand, which was resting on his face, moves almost of its own accord toward the plate before I stop myself. “Thank you, Peeta,” I tell him sheepishly, blushing yet again. He watches me as I pick up one of the pastries and eat it eagerly. I’ll never get tired of them.

“I was hoping you’d come by tonight,” he admits, grabbing my free hand and lacing our fingers together. He’s being awfully handsy given that we’ve only been on one date, but for some unknown reason, I allow it.

“You were?” I respond, surprised.

He nods. “We never made plans for another date,” he reminds me, nudging my shoulder with his playfully. “I was hoping for something where we could actually _talk_.”

Right. Because god knows I love making conversation. If I haven’t scared him off already – and the grip he has on my hand right now makes me suspect that I haven’t – I probably will once he gets to know the real Katniss. I probably shouldn’t even entertain the idea of another date, but...

“Would you have dinner with me? Tomorrow night?” he asks. The look he gives me makes my heart melt a little bit.

And even I’m surprised at how quickly I agree.

__________

“So you’ll be there Saturday?” Madge pesters me as we walk through the mall. I hate shopping with a passion, and I hate the mall possibly even more, but she’s been making me feel guilty for not spending much time with her lately. So I feel like I owe her.

“Yes,” I tell her firmly, hiking my purse up further on my shoulder.

“And you’re bringing your boyfriend this time?” she prods. When I don’t respond immediately, she huffs and continues, “If you don’t, I swear –”

“Yes, he’s coming!” I interrupt her.

_Boyfriend_. I still grit my teeth and fight my instinct to resist the label...but I suppose it’s technically accurate and there’s nothing inherently wrong with it. It just leaves a bad taste in my mouth. For some reason, I imagine that a “girlfriend” is supposed to be emotional, or dependent, or clingy, or any of the other things that I assume “boyfriends” want. And truthfully, I don’t have a great track record as one-half of a couple.

But I’ll reluctantly admit that over the past few weeks, Peeta and I have grown into something that fits the “couple” label. We spend the night at each other’s places with alarming regularity. We talk to each other every day. We hold hands – in public, even. He makes me laugh. He can get me to talk. He sometimes distracts me from reading my fanfiction updates. He makes me forget that I told myself not to get emotionally attached to any real-life men.

Sometimes I find myself thinking that my image of the ideal man is morphing away from Mr. Darcy, and toward Peeta Mellark.

__________

Tonight is time for the true test of my relationship with Peeta. It’s not difficult, but it is long. Almost six hours long, as a matter of fact. It involves empire-waist gowns, nineteenth century British English...and one Colin Firth.

All along I’ve been thinking of this as a test primarily for Peeta: can he survive watching my very favorite _Pride and Prejudice_ adaptation without (1) falling asleep or otherwise showing disrespect for my favorite thing, or (2) getting so creeped out by my swooning over Mr. Darcy that he breaks things off right then and there? Better to find out now if things aren’t going to work out between Peeta and me, right?

But now that Peeta’s here, in my living room, telling me about his day as he unwinds my braid and runs his hands through my hair (he has no idea how much I secretly love this), I’m starting to think this might be a test for me, too. Can I have my two biggest crushes in the room with me at the same time? Guess we’ll find out.

I’d figured that Peeta had to find out the truth about me sometime. That I have a greater-than-normal love of a book, and certain characters in that book. I managed to sneakily slip _Pride and Prejudice_ into conversation a week ago by starting a discussion about literature. He’d read it, which is good...and it seems like it didn’t make a big impression on him, which is understandable. I don’t think there’s a single man in my group of Tumblr _Pride and Prejudice_ friends.

When we were talking, I nonchalantly suggested that sometime he’d have to watch my favorite film adaptation. Being the gentleman he is, he agreed. Poor guy didn’t even know what he was agreeing to. And when I invited him over for a movie tonight, he didn’t realize that tonight was going to be the night we’d be watching it.

I decide to let him know what he’s in for.

I lean back against Peeta’s chest and look up at him. I slide my hand behind his neck and draw his face toward mine for a long, slow kiss. “Do you want to spend the night tonight?” I ask him when we finally break apart.

“Yes,” he mumbles, as he groans and pulls me back to him, slipping his tongue into my mouth while his hand creeps up underneath my shirt. As his kisses grow more urgent, I fight to keep myself in control. This is nice, of course, but I can’t let things get too heated or I’ll end up distracted from the real reason I invited him over tonight. _Focus, Katniss_.

I steel myself and pull away, ignoring his protests. “Good, we’re going to be up late,” I tell him as I slip off the couch and walk toward my television, kneeling down and rifling through my cabinet of DVDs. Finding the box that contains the BBC _Pride and Prejudice_ , I hold it up in the air triumphantly. “Because this is a really long movie.”

__________

“You and that laptop,” Peeta teases me. “I swear I’ve never seen you without it.”

I blush and shake my head. But I don’t look up at him – I’m far too engrossed in the latest chapter of “ _The Last Man I’d Ever Marry_.” “You know me, always reading,” I mumble.

Peeta stops in front of me as he’s sweeping the floor. He stares down until I’m practically forced to look up at him. “Long-form _journalism_?” he asks, cocking an eyebrow at me and clearly trying not to laugh.

I glare back at him. “Don’t start with me, Peeta Mellark,” I warn.

He laughs and continues taking care of a few last chores as he closes down the bakery for the evening. He and I are alone in the store right now, and I’m waiting for him to finish so we can leave to go home.

Go to his house, I mean.

I close my laptop and sigh, stretching my arms above my head as I gather my things to leave. It’s funny how normal it feels being here after hours. My relationship with the bakery has changed quite a bit over the past few months, I suppose, even though I still follow the same basic routine every time I come here: corner table, cheese buns, laptop, fanfiction.

Peeta, of course, is an important _new_ component of my routine.

He still doesn’t know what I’m doing as I sit back here. I’m surprised he’s never asked. Unless he really believes that I’m reading news articles for hours on end every night. Would I tell him if he asked me about it? And, honestly...what do I have to be ashamed of?

I grab my backpack and walk into the other room, where I find Peeta cleaning up the front counter. I lean against it, my back facing him, and ask as nonchalantly as possible, “What do you know about fanfiction?”

Suddenly, I hear a clatter behind me and I jump, startled. I turn around and see that Peeta’s dropped a tray of cookies onto the floor. He curses and bends down to pick them up, taking an inordinately long amount of time to gather them together, before running into the kitchen to throw them away. When he returns, he continues what he was doing before without answering my question.

Now would be a good time to drop the topic altogether, but now that I’ve started down this road, I intend to keep going. I feel compelled to unburden myself. Clearing my throat, I continue, “So I was saying...have you heard of fanfiction?”

This time I actually have the courage to look at him while I ask the question, but it seems like he’s avoiding my gaze. At least, I’ve never seen him clean the cash register quite so thoroughly before. Looking intently at the machine in front of him, he hesitantly replies, “Um, why do you ask?”

_Why do I ask?_ What kind of a question is that? I’m too confused at this reaction; I just shake my head and keep talking, ignoring the question. I take a deep breath. “Peeta,” I begin my confession, “I don’t really sit back there reading ‘long-form journalism’ every night. I read fanfiction.”

He continues scrutinizing the cash register, an unreadable expression on his face. “I...may be familiar with fanfic. I mean, fanfiction.” He finally raises his gaze to meet mine. “About what?” he asks.

“ _Pride and Prejudice_ ,” I tell him.

A look of understanding comes over his face. “ _That’s_ why you had me stay up until two o’clock in the morning watching that miniseries! I wondered why it was so important that we see the entire thing.”

He walks around the counter and grabs my hand, pulling me to the bakery’s front door. I follow closely behind him. “So you don’t mind?” I ask.

He gives me a quizzical look as he turns off the lights. “Why would that bother me?”

I gulp nervously as we step outside in the cool evening air. “Because sometimes I read about Mr. Darcy...and other people...um...you know,” I mumble, trailing off. I cannot bring myself to actually say the words.

Peeta laughs and slips his arm around my waist. “Smut. You’re trying to tell me you read smut?” he says.

My cheeks flame and I bury my face in my hands as he leads me to his car. “I read about fictional characters having sex,” I moan, peeking at him through my fingers.

At least he doesn’t seem to care. How he figured that out so quickly, though, I’m not certain.

“You have nothing to be ashamed of, Katniss,” he assures me. “Especially if we, you know, use it as inspiration.” My mouth drops open and he raises his eyebrows suggestively.

Up to this point, I’ve been pretty flustered, but he’s taking this all so well that I start to relax. As we get in the car, I joke nervously, “I guess I can finally stop keeping the _New York Times_ tab open whenever you’re around.” I look at him and give a sheepish smile. “How are you so good about all this?” I saw disbelievingly, more to myself than to him.

Peeta shifts his car into drive and pulls into the street. “Have you heard of _Firefly_?”

“The TV show?” I ask. He nods in confirmation. “It wasn’t on for long, was it?”

“Don’t get me started on that, Katniss,” he responds bitterly.

Touchy subject, apparently. “I’ve never seen it,” I tell him.

He taps the steering wheel thoughtfully. “Well, we’ll have to start watching it when we get back to my place tonight. But after it’s over, and you realize there’s no more...well, then we can talk about my own forays into fanfiction.”

I laugh softly to myself. “Alright. What’s it about?” I say curiously.

Peeta looks over at me and takes a deep breath. He begins very seriously. “There’s this spaceship called the Serenity, and the captain and crew of the ship are criminals,” he explains, “but good guys.” He shakes his head and pauses. “Let me back up...see, people left Earth when it got used up, and found a whole new solar system. The central planets called themselves The Alliance, and tried to bring everyone under their rule...”

__________

I’m lying in bed, listening to the comforting regularity of Peeta’s breathing next to me.

We watched three episodes of _Firefly_ tonight and ended up getting to bed way too late, given that we both have to go to work in the morning. But I couldn’t say no to him when I saw how clearly excited he was to introduce it to me...and honestly, he put up with worse from me when I sprung six hours of _Pride and Prejudice_ on him with no warning. It was the least I could do.

After all that, and considering how late it is, I’m surprised I’m not asleep. Peeta passed out seconds after he kissed me good night, but then again, he always does. But I can’t stop thinking...about Peeta, and how lucky I am that I found him.

I resist the urge to grab my phone off the nightstand and check my email or get on the Tumblr app. Instead, I curl closer to Peeta, pressing my back into his chest. Even in his sleep, his arm slides instinctively around my waist. I close my eyes and smile to myself, clasping his hand in mine.

I’ve never thought about it before, and I don’t know why the thought pops into my head now, but Peeta Mellark is no Mr. Darcy. And I’m surprisingly okay with that. I’ve finally found a real-life boyfriend to beat out my fictional one.

Here’s what I’ve learned about Peeta over the past few months: he makes amazing cheese buns. He’s chatty, he’s charming, he’s funny, he’s kind. He apparently writes Firefly fanfiction about the adventures of Mal and Jayne. He surprises me every day.

He’s nothing like what I imagined my ideal man to be.

But for me, he’s perfect.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a bunch of people to thank for their help on this story!
> 
> To my awesome beta sunfishdunes for making this story presentable and telling me that she liked it, which was such a relief because her opinion means the world to me.
> 
> To 30smmof2/ThirtySomething for pre-reading, encouraging me, providing me with her expert knowledge of Firefly, and just being an all around great friend.
> 
> To wickedlyclever/Jenns_Fiction for giving me access to her unmatched skills at innuendo, which led to many of the fake fanfic titles in this story. She was the one who told me what the real “Pride of Pemberley” was! And thanks for the encouragement, the PMs, and the gchats as well!
> 
> To jennagill for also providing me with a list of fake fanfic titles, and allowing me to use her real-life search term for finding Hunger Games fanfiction (Katniss Peeta sex) as my setup for how Katniss finds smut in my story.


End file.
